


Locked In (But You Seem to be Okay Company)

by icannotevenhhh



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety Attacks, At least he's trying, Awkward Conversations, Bobby Pins, Evan's Not Wearing a Polo for Once, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Evan Hansen, Locked In, M/M, Soft Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Underage Smoking Mention, Zoe Murphy Tries, she's great, shocker - Freeform, tree identification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotevenhhh/pseuds/icannotevenhhh
Summary: I sigh to myself, feeling defeated, and begin to pack away my hopelessly disorganized things. Behind me, there’s the telltaleka-chunkof the library door’s push handle. I expect to hear the door swing closed, tensing in anticipation of the noise, but I don’t. Instead, I hear the handle again. And again. And again, and again and again and again and again and againagainagainagainagain, as though someone’s furiously rattling it. I spare a look behind me, just in time to see Connor kick the door hard enough to dent it. I flinch at the resulting boom.He pauses a moment, breathing heavily, before he glares back at me over his shoulder.“We’re locked in.”Fuck.
Relationships: Connor Murphy & Zoe Murphy, Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 190





	Locked In (But You Seem to be Okay Company)

# Evan

I can’t stop staring at Connor Murphy.

He’s glaring down at his textbook, cheek resting on his fist and elbow resting on the table, greasy hair (how often does he shower?) falling in his eyes. His legs are spread wide and he’s bouncing one of his knees--the table is shaking, my hands are shaking, my pen is shaking--and his eyes are drilling holes into the paper. He brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. 

Brush. 

Bounce. 

Tick.

The sound of a page turning as Connor continues to read.

Brush.

Bounce.

Tick.

A scratching begins to build in my throat, slowly climbing up my windpipe until finally I can’t stand it anymore and cough. Connor looks up, piercingly hard eyes meeting mine as my stomach drops to the floor. (Can he tell that I’m shaking? At this point, think I might look hypothermic. Is it even that cold in here?)

There’s no real reason for me to be afraid of him--the printer story gives him more bad rep than he really deserves--but I am anyway. He’s intimidating. He’s loud and physical, bumping and shoving his way through the halls instead of walking. It doesn’t help that he’s three inches taller than me and could probably break my arm again if he wanted. (I mean, I think could take him in a fight, if I _really_ had to...the cast would definitely be an obstacle, but Connor is wiry and thinner than me.) (I guess that has nothing to do with strength. I heard he broke Jacob Eli’s nose over the summer.) (How much _does_ he eat, anyway?)

Despite everything, though, he’s never really hurt me. The worst he’s done is shove Jared into a wall of lockers, which didn’t even involve me. (He deserved it.)

I’m snapped out of my thoughts by Connor clearing his throat, cocking a brow.

“Do I have something on my face?”

_He caught me staring._

“I- uh- well, um-” I stutter uselessly, gripping my pen to keep it from slipping out of my sweaty (God, _always_ sweaty!) hands. “No. No, I don’t think you do.”

“You don’t _think?_ ” 

“No, no! You don’t, definitely don’t.”

Connor’s looking at me closely now, scowling as he studies my face. 

It’s useless to, but I can’t help but wish that Mrs. Keith partnered me with someone else for this stupid project. Working with Connor--sitting barely three feet away from him, I can practically feel the frustration rolling off him in waves--is bound to end in disaster. (I would rather be partnered with Sophia. Or maybe Emmett. They scare me, but at least they seem somewhat nice.) (Or maybe it would’ve been better if I worked alone. It’s not like anyone would have picked me to be with them, anyway.)

Connor and I have AP English together. I see him every day just before school lets out, sitting in the back row with his head cradled in his arms, hood up and leg bouncing idly under his desk. It’s gotten to the point where Mrs. Keith doesn't bother waking him up, even for important announcements or assignments. (Is he even asleep? Maybe he's listening?)

The first few days of school were the only times I've ever heard her call his name during attendance. She sat at her desk, legs crossed at the ankles with the toes of her heels pointed to the ceiling. As she listed off her students, a different hand and different voice would respond in turn.

"Alexander Macey?"

"Here."

"Patricia Mann?"

"Here."

"Quincy Mulligan?"

"Here."

"Connor Murphy?"

A long pause settled over the classroom.

"Connor Murphy?"

I glanced behind me. Connor was seated in the back corner desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. He didn't notice me look back at him. (Or maybe he did? Is that why he's so weird around me?)

A student in the front row informed our teacher that he's the kid in the back, and she sighed through her nose. "Mr. Murphy, please let me know if you're here or not when I call your name. It'll make things easier for all of us."

It didn't. Not for me, at least.

Because now I'm his project partner, and he's staring me down like he’s about to bite my head off.

(Thanks, Mrs. Keith.)

Once more, I’m shaken from my thoughts by Connor. “So...I’ve read the instructions. I just don’t get what we’re supposed to _do._ ”

“Well...it’s a collaboration between the English and history departments, right?” I sound so unsure of myself that it makes me want to shrivel up. Connor nods. His hair falls into his face for the millionth time today.

“Yeah. And.” The way he says it is less of a question and more of a statement.

“And...so we have to connect relevant historical events with one of the books on the reading list?” The way I say it is less of a statement and more of a question. (I’m pathetic.)

Connor rolls his eyes. “ _And?_ ”

“Er, we have to make a display board highlighting the real-life connections to the book. And, uh-” Connor looks bored by my stammering. I try not to flush from embarrassment. “We have to write an accompanying paper that explains everything. On the board, I mean. Plus some other stuff.”

He sits there for a tense moment, before slowly nodding. His hair keeps falling in his face- I’m tempted to push it back myself. (God, is that weird? I’m so weird.) (Everyone thinks I’m weird…)

(No they don’t. No one even cares that I exist.)

(...Connor probably thinks I’m weird.)

Connor grumbles something under his breath, shuffling through the papers spread across the library table. “Where’s the reading list?”

I blink. “I don’t know. I thought you had it?”

The table’s shaking grows more aggressive. Connor’s brow creases in agitation. (I’m still shaking, too. I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed yet.) (I hope he doesn’t.)

“Of course I don’t fucking have it,” he snaps, spitting every syllable through gritted teeth. I barely keep myself from flinching. “Where’d you put it?”

“I swear, I don’t have it! Keep looking, I’m sure it’s there somewhere!” 

I join him in the frantic shuffling of papers, scanning over headings and notes and examples. I’m cursing myself over and over for deciding to finish other homework before starting, because if we didn’t have so much to sort through, we wouldn’t have lost the reading list. (More like I; Connor’s barely done anything other than read the history textbook.) (I sort of wanted to do my homework with him, though. The company is a surprisingly welcome change--even if he does terrify me.)

Connor suddenly snatches his hand away from the papers, hissing a string of curses under his breath as he sticks his thumb into his mouth. “Pabercup,” he mutters to me, eyes flashing dangerously down at his inanimate attacker. (He looks like he’s about to set them on fire.) (If he does, I hope it doesn’t burn down the school library. It’d suck to have nowhere to sit at lunch.)

“Uh, do you need a band-aid, or somethi-”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting me off. His chair squeals loudly against the floor as he stands, hastily scrounging around for his things and shoving them into his bag.

“What are you doing?” I ask stupidly. (I always sound so stupid. It’s not like I’m smart either way, but I hate sounding stupid.)

“Leaving. We can work on this later, or whatever.” He looks frustrated, like he might wring my neck if I dare say something to him. So I just nod. I’m helpless to do anything to stop him. Do I even want to stop him? It’s not like he’s rivetingly conversational.

I listen to the soft thud of Connor’s boots as he makes his way over to the library doors.

I’m probably the reason he wants to leave.

(Nobody ever wants to stay around me for long.)

I sigh to myself, feeling defeated, and begin to pack away my hopelessly disorganized things. Behind me, there’s the telltale _ka-chunk_ of the library door’s push handle. I expect to hear the door swing closed, tensing in anticipation of the noise, but I don’t. Instead, I hear the handle again. And again. And again, and again and again and again and again and againagainagainagainagain, as though someone’s furiously rattling it. I spare a look behind me, just in time to see Connor kick the door hard enough to dent it. I flinch at the resulting boom.

He pauses a moment, breathing heavily, before he glares back at me over his shoulder.

“We’re locked in.”

Fuck.

# Connor

I don’t know what to do.

The kid I’m working with--Evan--is frozen in front of me, eyes wide like I just told him his dog got run over by a semi. 

"We're _locked in_?" Evan chokes out. He sounds pained, tripping over his words as though something's stuck in his throat. "Are you sure? Did- did you try the other door?"

I do.

Still locked.

I hear Evan take in a sharp breath. "...Back door. What about the back door?"

I turn. "Wait here." He gives me a nod as I pass him, weaving through the tragically under-stocked and underused bookshelves. It sucks that nobody ever really cares about the library--except for Beck, of course.

The walk to the back door feels almost like coming home. I go to the back all the time when I skip, both to read and to smoke. Books are an escape to me, a portal away from all the crappy things life likes to cram down my throat. Like home. Or class. Or anywhere, really.

Out there, outside the school, where the wind can blow through my hair and I don't have to pretend I'm okay...it's like a breath of fresh air. (Ironic, considering how often I smoke.)

I reach the back door. I doubt it's unlocked, the staff does a Friday sweep around the school before closing up for the week. I found that out the hard way: a janitor called the cops on me because he found me sleeping behind the cafeteria sophomore year. I think he thought I was homeless. (Never again.)

I growl a curse under my breath as I try the handle. As expected, it refuses to budge. I give the door a swift kick to spite it before turning on my heel and making my way back over to Evan. He’s still sitting at the table, looking up at me with even more fear in his eyes.

“The bad news is that the back door is locked. The good news is-”

“We’re locked in? Completely?” Evan’s voice is an octave higher than normal. I decide not to comment on it.

“Yeah, but like, the good news is-”

“We can’t be stuck in here. My mom’s going to be home early tonight!” I can see the panic beginning to build inside him. I stand there, unsure how to react. He continues, ignoring my silence.

“I’m probably going to miss the last bus. That means I’m going to walk home, and it’s probably going to rain, the forecast last night said so, and I’m going to get soaked because I don’t have a raincoat, or ANY kind of coat, really-”

He’s beginning to wring the bottom of his park ranger t-shirt, and he’s got this absent look in his eye, almost like he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him.

“And then I’m going to get sick and stay home and miss a bunch of school, and I’m going to make my mom worry and then I’ll have to make up half a month’s worth of work in a few days, and THAT’s assuming I don’t force myself to go to school, which means I’m going to be miserable and probably get in trouble because I sneeze on a teacher or _something!_ And that’s assuming we manage to get out at all-”

Evan’s beginning to hyperventilate, choking on his breath as I stand there, not knowing how to help.

“Oh fuck, what if they think we broke in? Would we get arrested? I can’t spend a night in jail, I can’t, I just-”

Evan’s face is flushed as he continues struggling to breathe, his words growing more and more sputtery and mangled. I feel bad--panic attacks aren’t exactly new to me; this isn’t my first rodeo. I gotta help him somehow. But, watching him, my mind floods itself with worry. What if I say the wrong thing? I don’t want to make it worse. He’s probably afraid of me. Everyone is.

But thinking like that isn’t helping.

So I just stop thinking.

# Evan

Connor’s walking over to me. I can’t read the look on his face.

For a second I think he’s going to hit me, but instead he just sits beside me, gently putting his hand on my shoulder. “Is this okay?”

His voice is surprisingly gentle. I focus all of my energy into a single nod--he’s warm, he’s so so warm and-

He wraps his arm around me.

“How’s this?”

I can’t breathe, I can’t say anything, but I can nod. So I do.

Connor smiles slightly--I’ve never seen him smile like that, I’ve never seen him smile at _all_ \--and my mind reels for a bit before slowly starting to untangle itself. “You need help breathing?” I nodnodnod, punctuated by a shaky wheeze. Connor nods back at me. “Okay, uh- just follow me. Okay?” 

More nodding.

For a split second I think about how idiotic I must look, but then that thought is drowned out by a million others.

_What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if? What if?_

Connor breathes in, taking in a huge, overdramatic gulp of air.  
I follow.

He continues to lead my breathing, in and out, in and out, until I can finally do it myself. He’s still smiling, he has been the whole time. “Okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.” (I’m not, but saying it helps a little.)

“I’m gonna ask you some stuff, and I want you to answer the best you can, okay?”

“Okay.” (I really don’t think I can.)

Connor’s hold on me tightens slightly. It’s been so long since I’ve been hugged by anyone other than my mom, I nearly forgot how it felt. “What’re five things you can see?”

It takes me longer than it should to respond. I look around, trying to catch a grip on my thoughts, but it feels like they’re wisps of smoke running through my fingers. “Um…”

“It’s okay, take your time.”

I take a shaky breath. “...The carpet. My backpack. My pencil. Um...the table. My chair.”

Connor nods encouragingly. “Awesome. Now, what’s four things you can feel?”

Before I can stop myself, I lean into Connor’s side. “...You.”

He snorts. “There’s one. Now you need three more.” (I smile a little.)

“...My chair. My- my shirt. My cast.”

“Can you tell me three things you hear?”

“...You,” I say again (he laughs slightly, and I feel that much better), “the air conditioner, and…” I close my eyes, listening. “Cars. Outside.”

“What are two things you smell?”

It’s coming easier now, I don’t have to put as much focus into spitting out my words. “...What the heck kind of question is that?”

“The kind of question you ask someone having a panic attack. You gonna answer it?”  
Now it’s my turn to snort. “Dust. And…” (Weed. Connor. Something clean- probably his detergent.) (He’s so _close._ ) (It’s nice...his jacket is soft.) “...Is it cheating to say you again?”

Connor grins. “Yeah. Try again, man.”

I take a deep, overdramatic breath, closing my eyes. “Paper?”

“Sure. Paper’s a smell, I guess. Now, what’s one thing you can taste?”

I run my tongue over my teeth. “...Dr. Thunder.”

“What, that Walmart-brand Dr. Pepper?”

“Yeah. I had a can of it at lunch.”

“Nice.” Connor meets my eyes as I open them. He’s smiling comfortably, like I’m his best friend; a world away from the cold glares he’d been shooting me earlier. “Feeling better?”

I nod. (I’ve been doing that a lot. Connor must think my head is broken, or something.) “Yeah, I think so.” I pull away from him and sit up, running a hand through my hair. “...So...We’re stuck in the library.”

“Yeah. But as I was saying earlier, the good news is that we have a couple of options.”

I look up at Connor skeptically, who cocks a brow in return. He slides his bag from his shoulders and onto the floor, digging through one of the side pockets. A triumphant look crosses his face as he grabs something inside, taking it out to show me. It’s a bobby pin. “If push comes to shove, I can pick a lock with this. But there’s an easier option.”

“What? What’s easier?” (I wonder where he learned to pick locks. And why does he have a bobby pin? Is it Zoe’s?) (Is it his?) (Does Connor do his hair? What would he look like with his hair up?) 

“See those windows?”

I stare, blinking stupidly. “We’re not...breaking them, are we?”

“What? _God_ no! I’m in enough trouble as it is. They latch from the inside, man!”

“Oh… _oh!”_ (I’m such an idiot.) "So we're gonna climb out the window?"

"Basically, yeah." Connor stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder and tucking the bobby pin into his pocket. (I still wonder what he'd look like with his hair up.) He crosses the room to the window, and I follow, scrambling to my feet and grabbing my backpack. (I make sure to nudge my chair under the table with my foot as I leave. Connor didn't--his chair stands in the middle of the floor, all by itself.)

I stop beside him as he pops the latch on the window, sliding it open with a _shoomp_. The rush of cold autumn air against my face is a welcome change from the stuffy, dusty warmth of the library. Connor flashes me a mischievous grin, stepping up onto the windowsill before hopping outside, his sneakers thudding against the pavement below. “You need help getting over?” he asks, offering me a hand. I shake my head. 

“No, I’ll be okay. If thirty-foot trees aren’t a problem for me, a window definitely won’t be. I climbed them all the time over the summer, uh, because I did an apprenticeship ranger program at Ellison State Park? The funny thing about that, though, is that I actually fell _out_ of one. Really high- er, tall- taller by ten or fifteen feet than what I was used to, you know?” I laugh awkwardly. The itchy, crawly feeling of panic begins to climb up my spine as Connor looks at me wordlessly, arm still outstretched. (He’s bored. Tired of you. He thinks you’re a freak.) Clearing my throat, I take his hand and carefully clamber outside, wobbling slightly due to the weight of my bag on my shoulders. 

Once I’m safe on the ground again, Connor reaches past me to close the window. His hand stays in mine a beat or two longer than it probably should have, and it sends my head reeling. He then turns to me, eyes meeting mine and sending a shock through my nervous system. (They’re mostly blue, but I notice some brown splotches in them. Have they always been like that?) 

“You told me about the tree thing. On the first day.” He catches me off guard with that. I was expecting something along the lines of: _‘Your hands are sweaty. That’s really gross, man. Why did I ever agree to work with you after school?’_

“Uh, yeah, I did. You remembered?”

“‘Course I did. You were like, the only person I actually talked to at school that day.” Connor adjusts the strap of his bag, that annoyingly persistent strand of hair falling into his face. This time, however, instead of brushing it away, he digs the bobby pin from his pocket and pins it back. (Does this mean Connor does his hair? Maybe he learned how to do it from Zoe?)

“You should do your hair,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Connor shoots me a look, his whole body stiffening as he scowls. 

“What?”

I get the sinking feeling that I might’ve said the wrong thing. I’m quick to correct myself: “I don’t mean it in a bad way! Just- your hair is super long and really fits you (not that I know much about hairstyling or whatever) but I dunno I just think it’d look nice in a bun, or something-”

Connor’s staring at me, eyes widened slightly, his anger draining away. I trail off, awkwardly clearing my throat. “Uh...yeah.”

“...No one’s ever said that to me before,” Connor says. If he hadn’t been helping me through an attack earlier, this would be the softest I’ve ever heard him speak. “Uh, about my hair. I haven’t really gotten any compliments.”

“Well, if it means anything, I like it.”

“...Thanks.” He shoots a slight smile my way, and I can’t help but smile back. I like this Connor. The one who smiles at me and offers to help if I need it. He’s nice--nicer than most people make him out to be. 

Connor looks up at the darkening pink sky, humming in dissatisfaction. He checks his phone, before sighing and slipping it back into his pocket. “You were right. We missed the last bus.”

“Dang.” That means I have to walk home. I glance down at the sidewalk, then at my sneakers. They’re worn down from all the time I spent outdoors over the summer, and I desperately need a new pair. Walking home in them will be a bitch, but it’s not like I have any other options. Jared’s my only hope for calling in a ride, but I know he doesn’t like spending time with me. (I’m such a bother.) I look over at Connor to say goodbye, but he’s taken his phone out again, and is now furiously typing something. It’s useless to interrupt him, so I just turn and start my trek back home.

I barely get three steps away before Connor stops me. “Where are you going?”

“Um...I’m walking home?”

“Oh.” Connor chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. “You want a ride?”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s not a big deal if you don’t want me around-”

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay, I really don’t mind. Honest. My sister’s coming to pick me up, so it’s not like you have to deal with the nightmare that is my parents.”

I huff a laugh. “Uh...yeah. Yeah, a ride would be great, thank you.”

# Connor

I look back at my conversation with Zoe as Evan sits on the curb.

 **Connor:** hey. can you come and pick me up? I missed the bus home bc I was working on a project

(I didn’t mention the lock-in. Something tells me she wouldn’t have been happy about that.)

**Zoe:** Ugh fine. Mom will be fuckin pissed if she finds out this was to get high or smth

 **Connor:** it wasn’t. bitch.

 **Zoe:** Fuck you.

I’ll be there in 10

I sigh to myself, quiet so that Evan doesn’t hear. I honestly wish my relationship with Zoe was better. It’s my fault she hates me. I’m the one always angry, always so out of control. She has every right to be pissed at me. I would be too, if _my_ brother liked to nearly knock my door off its hinges.

(I don’t like to do that, though. I never have.)

I type out another text.

**Connor:** btw im with evan hansen

from my english class

he needs a ride home too

(It’s a second before she responds.)

**Zoe:** The one with the broken arm? What’d you do, lock him in the gym so he couldn’t go home?

 **Connor:** what no. hes my project partner. god

 **Zoe:** Well whatever. Dont kill him before I get there

I sigh again through my nose and put away my phone, and Evan looks over his shoulder at me. His brow is furrowed, and I can tell by the look in his eye that something’s bothering him. The kid’s like an open book, you can read just about anything he’s feeling. I go and sit down beside him, spreading my legs out over the asphalt. “Something on your mind?”

He stutters out a couple half-formed words--he does that a lot, I’ve noticed--before finally stringing together a sentence. “Did you ever read my letter? The one you found on the first day?”

“The one from the computer lab?”

“...Yeah.”

I look away sheepishly, nodding slowly. The truth is, I read it all the time. It’s weird and creepy, I know, but it makes me feel less...alone. It’s proof that someone, anyone at all, understands how I feel. The fact that it mentions my sister is a little creepy, but honestly, it sorta makes sense. I mean, through middle school, there were loads of people I would have done _anything_ to talk to. My sister included. “It’s in my desk drawer. Do you want it back?”

“Uh...no. I don’t need it, really. It was supposed to be for my therapist. It’s an, um, writing assignment? For my anxiety. It’s weird, though, I know it is.”

“I don’t think so. Everybody has to get their feelings out somehow.”

Evan nods, pausing for a moment. A gentle breeze begins to pick up around us, and some of my hair flutters into my eyes. I brush it away, and I’m seriously considering just putting it up into a ponytail when Evan breaks the silence. “How do you get your feelings out? If it’s not too personal, I mean.”

I chew my lip. “I kinda...don’t. That, or I just, explode, you know? You’ve seen it happen. Everyone has.”

Evan doesn’t say anything else, wiping his hands on his jeans. I can’t help but hate the tenseness between us, so I rack my brain for any way to stop it. I look around for something, _anything_ , to help, when the wind blows again, sending a small army of dead leaves skittering across the asphalt. One bumps into my leg, and I reach down to pick it up, twirling it between my fingers. “You know about trees, right? What tree did this come from?”

Evan hums, taking the leaf from me to inspect it. “...It’s a scarlet oak, probably. I can’t fully tell without seeing the tree, though. I’m not _that_ good at identification.”

I don’t tell him, but I’m kinda impressed. “Well, why can’t you tell?”

“See these sinuses?” Evan runs his finger into one of the leaf’s dips, holding it up to show me. “They look really similar to ones from a pin oak. They _could_ also be from a black oak, but I doubt it. See how red it is?” 

I nod.

“Scarlet oaks can get super red in the fall. Hence the name.” Evan smiles at me once he’s done explaining, and I want to smile back. I don’t, though.

“How do you know it’s from an oak in the first place?”

“Well, for one, it’s got lobes and sinuses--that’s what those bumps and dips are,” Evan says, scooting closer to me to more easily show me the leaf. There’s an excited glint in his eyes while he talks. It clues me in to the fact that he probably never gets to tell this crap to anyone, and despite my disinterest, I listen. 

“And the top is all glossy and thick,” he continues, “and the bottom’s got a midrib. There’s bristles on the tips of the lobes, too, which means it’s part of the red oak group, as opposed to the white oak group. Plus the fact that it’s fallen in the first place means it’s from a deciduous tree, not an evergreen. Granted, some oaks are evergreen, but most aren’t.”

I want to say that I'm bored, but I’m not. There’s something about Evan, about the way he talks, that keeps my attention. “So...dessi-...dece-”

“Deciduous.”

“Right. That means their leaves fall off?”

“Every year, yeah.”

“Why not just call them, like, nevergreens or something?”

Evan looks at me. He blinks, before bursting into laughter. “Dude, that’s so stupid!”

“No it’s not! They’re not _ever_ green, so they’re _never_ green. It’s easier to remember!” I feel my face grow hot as I struggle to defend my reasoning. Evan snorts.

“Yeah, but they’re green in the spring and summer. It makes no sense to call them nevergreens.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re just upset that I’m right.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, treehugger.”

Evan’s about to say something when headlights blind us, and my sister pulls up in mom’s old toyota. It’s hers, technically, now that she has her license, but that doesn’t mean I think of it that way. She stops in front of us, rolling down her window to call in our direction. “Get in, losers, we’re going shopping.”

# Evan

I can see Connor’s face in the rearview mirror. He’s got his head in his hand, leaning against the window and gloomily gazing at the world passing us by. He took shotgun, leaving me all by myself in the back. Zoe’s directly in front of me, driving; which means she’s (almost) completely blocked from my view. I can still sort of see Connor, though. (His hair’s tied up now. He did it as soon as he got in, using the window as a mirror.) (I like it.)

Zoe turns down the radio--she’d been playing some indie music I’d never heard before--and adjusts the rearview mirror to address me. “So, Evan, where do you live?” She sounds awkward but friendly, a million worlds away from how Connor had first spoken to me. He’s been a bit better, though. (Does that mean we’re friends now? Are we friends?)

“Uh, we’re kinda out there. Me and my mom. Like, past the park, and stuff.”

Zoe nods as she’s listening. I see her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and her resemblance to Connor slaps me in the face. For people who argue so much, they’re strikingly similar. (In both appearance and personality, I’m starting to realize.) “Are you on Elm Street, or…?”

“Sycamore.”

Connor mutters something about my life being consumed by trees, and Zoe punches his arm. (It was kinda funny, actually.) (I snort.)

“I’ll just, um. Tell you where to turn,” I say, and Zoe nods again. The car falls silent, aside from the low buzz of the radio and the whoosh of the heater. I can practically taste the awkwardness; spiky and metallic, grinding against my teeth like tin foil. It’s Connor who finally breaks it.

“So, when do you wanna meet up again?”

“Excuse me?” (I hope I’m not coming off as rude. I don’t mean to be rude.)

“Like, for the project. When do you wanna meet up?” 

I swallow, wringing my shirt in my hands. “Um, well, I don’t have anything to do after school, really. I just can’t usually meet up on Saturday.”

“Why not?”

“Shabbat. My mom and I aren’t _super_ religious, but we at least try to, um. Spend some time together.” 

“How about Sunday?”

“Sunday’s fine.”

“Cool.”

Silence again. Zoe turns up the AC to fill it, and I watch the trees pass by my window, the stretch of road behind us growing longer with every second passing.

Connor looks back at me, meeting my eye. There’s a beat of awkward silence, before he reaches over Zoe to roll down my window. 

“HEY-! CONNOR, WHAT THE-”

Connor and Zoe begin to bicker as the cold wind hits my face. (I hadn’t realized how hot I was.)  
I smile.

* * *

“We’re the first house on the right.”

Zoe hums in acknowledgement, using her palms to steer the car into my driveway. It’s been a quiet, awkward trip, and I’m eager to hop out, grabbing my backpack from the seat beside me and slinging it over my shoulders. (I’m careful to adjust my shirt and jeans so that they’re fitted properly on me. I am _not_ about to have a wardrobe malfunction in front of the Murphys.)

I’m about halfway to my door when Connor stops me. “Hey, Hansen! Wait up a sec!”

I pause, turning back to him. There’s an odd look on his face--it makes me nervous. (Well, more than it normally does.) Usually he’s so easy to read, but now I can’t quite pinpoint what he’s thinking. (Is he going to hit me? Does he hate me? He was so friendly before…)

“Do you have a Sharpie?”

I start. “Uh- yeah, I do-” My backpack hits the ground with a little shuffle-thud, and I kneel to dig through it. Pencil case. Pencil, pencil, highlighter...Sharpie. I hand it to Connor, pretending like my hands aren’t shaking as I zip my bag back up. It’s just barely back on my shoulders when he grabs my cast.

“Ow-”

“Sorry.”

He scribbles something down, screwing his face up and sucking his bottom lip into his mouth to chew. After a moment, he lets go of my arm, and I look down to read it. It’s his name and phone number, scrawled in large capital letters. (Even his numbers and dashes seem capital.)

I glance back up at the sound of his throat clearing. “We set a date in the car, but not really a time or a place. You can text me about it later, if you want.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I just nod, exhaling in a way that almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah, uh. Thanks. I will. Do you want my number, or-”

“Yo, Connor!” Zoe calls, the shotgun window rolled down so that she can yell at us. (Him? Us. Either way, she’s yelling.) “Mom wants your butt home ASAP. Dinner’s getting cold. We’re having something I can’t even pronounce, so don’t ask.”

Connor looks annoyed. He reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, but there isn’t any to brush, so he awkwardly turns it into a wave. “I guess I’ll see you Sunday, right?”

“Yeah. Sunday.” I shuffle in place a bit, unsure how to proceed, before Connor steps back and returns to his seat in the car.

I can hear him and Zoe bickering as I open the front door, and I don’t let myself grin until it’s shut and locked behind me.

# Connor

My phone buzzes late after dinner. I’m in bed with my sneakers still on, dirt smudging onto the covers. It pisses my mom off to high hell, but I’m too lazy to kick them off. I pull out my phone, my heart squeezing oddly as I unlock it to read the message.

**Unknown Number:** Hey. This is Evan Hansen, from Mrs. Keith’s English class? Is this Connor Murphy?

 **Connor:** hey dude. yeah its connor =)

 **Unknown Number:** We’re still on for Sunday, right?

 **Connor:** yeah ofc, where do you wanna meet up? ive got a library card and a coffee stamp card thingy if you wanna grab some hot bean juice and then chill at the library

 **Unknown Number:** Hot bean juice? Haha, that’s what you call coffee?

 **Connor:** yeah m8 come fite me lmao

 **Unknown Number:** Haha! That’s really funny! So what time do we meet up?

 **Connor:** i can pick you up around noon? bc i know where your house is n all that jazz

 **Unknown Number:** Sure! Noon works great! I can’t wait to meet up. =)

 **Connor:** me too [:

As I watch Evan’s typing bubble appear, I smile to myself. I tap ‘add contact’. I type in his name.

**Evan Hansen  
(English Project)**

After a few moments, a notification appears for a new message.

**Evan:** By the way, I wanted to mention something.

 **Connor:** Yeah?

 **Evan:** I was right. You should do your hair more often. It looks really nice! =)

I stare at the message, rereading it over and over before changing Evan’s contact to something better.

****

**Evan Hansen  
(<3)**

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for reading, and thanks to my good friends Jimmy and Andy for proofing/beta-ing this for me!
> 
> I'm always open to critique if ya'll want to comment on anything! Thanks!


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